


Cruel Winter

by LadyofShalott



Category: Dracula - Bram Stoker
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 07:20:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11122473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyofShalott/pseuds/LadyofShalott
Summary: Once upon a time, a monster loved a young man.  They did not live happily ever after.





	Cruel Winter

**Author's Note:**

> I was going through some old files and found this. I wrote it 14 years ago.... but vampires never age.

Purity, a white rose, magically birthed from tongues of flame. It is unblemished, flawless, and pristine as the snow piled in drifts outside the castle walls. Gingerly, he lifts the rose. Its petals kiss his cheek, whisper soft. They are strangely warm, almost as if they are truly living. 

His mind drifts to a time, many years ago, when another gazed lovingly into his eyes and stroked the same cheek with a perfect white rose. Its petals were cool, he recalls, like a mountain breeze sighing across his skin. His eyes flutter closed, only for a moment, full black lashes brushing alabaster skin. A trickle of warmth slips over his cheek. He has not cried in more years than he can count.

His lover had been so innocent, then. He had not told the young man what, precisely, he was. He could not tell him, he had reasoned, because no one in his right mind would willingly become involved with a creature such as himself. 

Their love had blossomed like a rose, white with innocence, blood red with deceit, scented with the sweetness of trust intermingled with a musky, spicy undertone of sin. He had believed the moon to wax and wane in the young man. Sunrises and sunsets had been forsaken centuries ago. 

It had been warm, he recalls, warm enough to chase away the perpetual chill that clung to his bones like his very shadow. Even in winter, his lover’s presence made him feel as if he were in the center of a roaring fire, burning with passion, yet safe from the flames, protected by the warm shield only love could provide. 

The day came, inevitably, when his lover found out his exact nature. He thinks, now, that he should have expected it. The boy was impetuous, always acting before he thought. He had excused himself for a few moments one autumn night at a tavern. Ten minutes later, he found himself staring up into deep brown eyes wide with shock. He had been horribly conscious of the whore on the ground in front of him, still fully clothed, and of the crimson stain coloring his lips. A miniscule drop of blood had fallen onto his white shirt, branding him the monster he was.

To his surprise, the boy had come back to the castle with him. They had fought bitterly, and it had ended with a crystal vase of roses, white, as always, crashing to the floor courtesy of his lover’s careless hand. He had watched as the young man bent to pick them up, slicing his finger on a glimmering shard, molten crimson spattering white velvet. He had licked dry lips, swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the lump in his throat. His eyes had been glued to the tiny wound. 

His love had cursed him, then, damned him to Hell with his words. In that moment he knew that the only man who had ever made him feel alive would be the man who took life from him.

He walks outside, cradling the rose in his hands. Snow falls unceasingly, further blanketing the ground. He is lost in memories. He does not hear stealthy footsteps in the darkness, barely feels an arm wrap around his neck, pulling him backward. He barely registers the pain as the cold point of a knife blade pierces his skin.

“Van Helsing,” he breathes, words nearly lost on the wind.

The grip releases, knife pulling away from skin. The wound is superficial. A trickle of blood slips down the vampire’s neck, one drop falling onto the white shirt, branding him.

“I could have done it,” Van Helsing replies. He is but a shadow of the man who loved the vampire so many years before.

“You could have,” Dracula agrees. “Yet you did not.”

“I did not.” Van Helsing nods. “I will. Someday, I will.”

The vampire returns his attention to the snowfall. He listens as footsteps retreat quietly into the darkness. 

The rose in his hands is dead, petals falling away only to be caught on the wind and scattered. He watches the final petal fall to the ground, white on white, the withered edge tinged with the barest hint of his blood.


End file.
